


Certain Defects

by Starlingthefool



Series: At Odds With Circumstance [2]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlingthefool/pseuds/Starlingthefool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>What is madness, but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?</i><br/>-Theodore Roethke</p><p>A series of related vignettes that follow <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/271133">5 Ways Logan Fixed Everything (Like A Boss)</a>. This may or may not evolve into a story with a plot at some point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Third Eye

Three days after they got back from Cuba, Hank blinked awake at 3am. Alex was breathing slow and heavy next to him, drooling on the pillow. Nobody was shooting at them. Shaw was still dead, Emma Frost in custody, and Azazel and Janos had promised to keep away from the mansion on pain of... well. Pain. Exorbitant amounts of it, in fact, via Erik and Logan. Everything was fine, for the moment.

So why had his body just propelled him back into consciousness?

“Hello, Hank, Alex.” Professor Xavier said, from the foot of the bed, where he’d apparently been _sitting and watching them sleep._

Alex stirred, blinking sleepily, then wakefulness seemed to crash on him all at once. “Jesus, shit, fuck, what the fucking fuck--”

He hid under the blankets. Hank wished he had thought of that, but now Alex was hogging them all.

“Professor? What are you doing?” Hank said, then blinked. “And why can I see through you?”

“Oh, that,” Professor Xavier said airily. “I’ve been practicing my astral projection, or a semblance thereof.”

Hank stared at him. Alex made a pained noise, somewhere between a groan and a whimper, from beneath the blankets.

“It’s quite groovy,” the Professor assured them. Hank realized that he wasn’t actually on the bed, but rather floating a few inches above it. In a lotus position. Shirtless. _Oh god._

“Okay,” Hank said, because really, there was no other possible response. “Was there something you needed?”

Charles cocked his head. “Not that I can think of, no. Wait, there was-- no, no, it’s gone again.”

“In that case,” Hank said slowly, “I think it’d be best if you left. Alex and I need to sleep.”

“You could go talk to Logan,” Alex said, voice muffled by the blankets. “He seems like a night owl.”

Professor Xavier gave this some thought while scratching at his belly. Hank desperately wanted to shut his eyes, but was scared that he’d just continue to see the professor behind his eyelids. Seriously, astral projection?

“That sounds like a splendid plan,” Xavier said. “Goodnight, boys.”

No sound, no wind, no puff of air: the Professor just vanished.

After a moment, Alex asked, “Is he gone?”

“Yeah.”

He emerged from underneath the blankets. “You are taking him off that fucking morphine, Hank. I don’t care if he still has a hole in his gut, I can’t handle this shit.”

“We’ll start weaning him off tomorrow,” Hank agreed. He lay back down, pulling the blankets out of Alex’s death grip. Alex yanked them back, and this led, as it nearly always did, to a very short wrestling match. Hank put up a token resistance, but ended up in a familiar position: Alex straddling him, pinning his wrists to the bed. Hank could have gotten out of the hold without much (if any) effort, but it was easy to let Alex do this, and there’s an obvious reward: Alex staring down at him, wide-eyed and wanting, their legs twined together. Hank wasn’t sure when he started craving being the the object of that gaze, but he’d started doing some ridiculous things to get it.

He licked his lips. Alex grinned and shifted his hips, leaning down until he was hovering a few inches above Hank’s mouth.

 _“WHAT THE FUCK IS -- ARE YOU LEVITATING?!”_ Logan’s voice thundered down the hall.

They both collapsed in giggles. The moment was ruined, but this was just as good.


	2. Ships and Shoes and Sealing Wax

Erik hadn’t been sleeping well. Correction: he hadn’t been sleeping much at all.

He had, in his chidhood, been plagued by nightmares. Ironically, during the most nightmarish time of his life, when he’d been Shaw’s prisoner, plaything, and guinea pig, he’d practically stopped dreaming. It was only in the last few weeks, since his recruitment by the CIA, that he’d started again.

It had all been rather banal nonsense at first: he was looking for a woman’s pocketbook on a football pitch, his grandfather’s cat gave birth to a litter of handheld radios, he was making a statue of his father in an ice-carving competition. The kind of rubbish that nobody but Freudians got excited about.

Since returning from Cuba, he had dreamt, over and over, of only two things: that Shaw was still alive, and that Charles was dead. Sleep deprivation was much more appealing.

Luckily, the Xaviers had an extensive library, and Erik found himself with the opportunity to catch up on all the reading he had missed while hunting down monsters. God knew there was little else to do here in the boring American countryside. To a man who had traveled the world -- stepped on four different continents in the last two months -- Westchester County held very little appeal. The only reason Erik had stayed this long was that he was utterly at a loose end. Any of the closure he’d hoped for with killing Shaw had yet to manifest.

And there was Charles, of course. Erik’s emotions regarding his friend were a tangled mess. Leaving without a word would only exacerbate the problem. And so he found himself in the library night after night, with only long-dead (and long-winded) writers and his own thoughts for company.

Erik had nearly given up his nightly struggle with Hegel when he heard Logan coming down the hall, stomping like an enraged elephant. A few seconds later, Logan burst through the double doors, stalking towards the armchair where Erik had installed himself. Erik shot to his feet when he saw that Charles was with him.

“Lensherr!” Logan barked. “Fucking deal with this!”

He waved a hand at Charles, who -- now that Erik looked at him -- didn’t appear to be entirely solid. He was also floating a few inches above the carpet, and was shirtless. All in all, it was rather out-of-character.

“What’s wrong with him?” Erik asked lightly. Charles looked fine, if one ignored the transparency and the fact that he was drooling slightly. Logan looked enraged. Erik was quite happy with this arrangement.

“He’s a telepath and high as a kite. Consequently, he’s doing weird shit, and it’s disrupting my goddam sleep.”

“What exactly do you want me to do about it?” Erik asked, putting on an imperious tone.

“I don’t give a crap,” Logan spat. “But you shot him, so you can babysit him.”

And he turned and walked away, ignorant or uncaring of the torment and guilt he had sent roiling through Erik’s guts. The bastard.

Erik sat back down again, slowly, feeling a wave of weariness. “Hello, Charles,” he said. “I was just reading Hegel.”

“Oh, fantastic,” Charles said brightly, floating closer.

“You’ve read him?” Erik asked, for a lack of anything else to say. He picked up the book again, entertaining the notion of reading to Charles.

“No. Found him dreadfully boring.”

After a moment, Erik set the book back down. “He is at that.”

There was an brutally awkward pause.

“Have you ever been on morphine, Erik?” Charles asked.

“No,” Erik replied. He had once tried opium, but it had been in the name of catching up with Shaw, and therefore didn’t count. He’d rather forget that weekend in Amsterdam anyway.

“It’s wonderful. It seems to create a sort of dissociation from the physical body that makes it easy to disconnect my self -- this projection that you’re seeing -- from it. This kind of things can take yogis and mediums decades to achieve, if you believe in such things, which I didn’t until I decided to try it. But anyway, I can do it with just a few milligrams of morphine in my bloodstream, it’s fascinating. I’ve always been able to observe others from afar, but the only way to make them aware of my presence is to speak directly into their minds, which can be kind of shocking, and not something that I’d really recommend doing to elderly relatives with heart conditions, even on a dare from one’s sister.”

Erik realized that Charles didn’t have to stop for breath in this form, so felt no regret at interrupting him. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

Charles narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Erik let himself smile, just a little. “Of course.”

“Anyway,” Charles said, and Erik settled himself in for another rant. “The physical dissociation is fascinating. I can catalog my body’s reactions to certain stimuli, but it’s distant, and I mostly feel indifferent to it. The place where you shot me barely even aches.” He looked down at his naked stomach; there was nothing to mark the place where the bullet had entered. Charles touched the spot -- a couple inches below his waist, to the left of his belly button. Erik knew that spot well, after seeing the blood pour out of it every night in his dreams.

“It does itch something terrible, though,” Charles added.

Erik put a hand over his eyes. He could feel a massive headache coming on.

“Sorry,” Charles said. “Are we not discussing that yet?”

Erik looked up. Charles still had the daft look on his face, but his eyes were as piercing as ever. “Not yet, my friend,” Erik said.

Charles nodded. “I suppose we should. Talk about that, I mean. Soon. When I’m not pumped full of drugs, preferably.”

Erik privately thought that he’d rather take a bullet to his own gut than have that conversation, but saying so to Charles would be rather gauche.

“You’re right, it would be. Goodness, it’s so much easier to hear your thoughts like this,” Charles observed.

 _Himmel, Arsch, und Wolkenbruch,_ Erik thought. It was a good thing that Charles’ German was abysmal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought to myself, what does the world need more of? I know! Charles Xavier high as a kite, and Erik Lensherr having emotions.
> 
> And according to some random language site, "Himmel, Arsch, und Wolkenbruch" translates to "Heaven, Arse, and Cloudburst," and seems to be an appropriate curse for all kinds of situations. If you speak German, and would be willing to testify to the usage of this rather captivating phrase, or have a better substitute, it would be much appreciated.


	3. Enquiring Minds Want To Know

“Oh my god,” Sean said, slamming open the door to the kitchen. Unfortunately, nobody was in there to answer him.

***

“Oh my god,” Sean said, slamming open the door to the library. Empty. Damn it.

***

“Oh my god,” Sean said, slamming open the door to the study. Erik looked up, a tin cup of coffee floating in the air next to him. He was staring at a chess board that appeared to have been suspended in the middle of a game.

“Sean? What is it?”

“Oh! Nothing. Never mind. Sorry to bother you, Magneto.”

“Don’t call me that,” he heard Erik say, right before he shut the door.

***

“Oh my god,” Sean said, slamming open the door to the TV room. Thank fucking god, Angel and Darwin were in there, watching _Lassie._

“Jesus, what is it?” Angel said.

Sean leaped onto the couch with them. “You guys. I can’t believe this never occurred to me. To _any_ of us.”

“What?” Darwin asked.

“Hank. He’s, like, seventeen right?”

“You’re seventeen,” Angel pointed out.

“Eighteen, then.”

“He’s twenty-three,” Darwin said.

“Jesus, really?” Sean asked, then shook his head. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’s been in college since he was twelve, and then went straight into the CIA to be their pet mad scientist, right?”

“What’s your point?” Angel asked.

Sean beckoned them closer, and they leaned in.

“Where the hell,” he whispered, “did Hank learn to fly a jet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other things that will never not be funny: Erik brooding like a broody thing, and Sean being a wingnut.


	4. Not Too Hot To Handle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: contains references to sexual violence.
> 
> Non trigger warnings: contains about 2000 words of conversation between awkward and mildly angsty twenty year olds, followed by 2000 words of straight-up sex.

There were few things more uncomfortable than being in the middle of an argument between your former crush and your current... whatever Alex was. They hadn’t really had that conversation yet.

“Forget it,” Alex said, not looking up from his comic book. “I don’t need to learn how to fight.”

“Everybody needs to learn,” Raven insisted. No, not Raven: _Mystique._ Even while the rest of them tended to use the nicknames as jokes, she’d been serious about not wanting to be called Raven anymore.

“I already know how to fight,” replied Alex.

“And that’s why Hank and I needed to save your ass on the beach?”

“I think I hear the telephone,” Hank said, edging out of the room. “ I’ll just--”

“Jesus,” Alex said, finally looking up. “It’s not like you displayed any great fighting skills back there either, you just morphed into Shaw and _shook your head._ ”

“That doesn’t change the fact that Azazel was about to rip your guts out. Hank!” Mystique said, catching him just as he was about to slip out the door. “Help me here.”

And now they were both looking at him. Oh god. “I... it could--” he tried to say.

Thankfully, Alex’s stubbornness saved him from having to pick a side. “Forget it, Raven. I’d rather listen to Sean singing in the shower.”

He tossed the comic book onto a table and got up to leave. As soon as his back was turned, though, Mystique darted forward and swept his feet out from underneath him. Hank winced when Alex hit the ground, but had to hide a smile when Mystique sat on Alex’s chest and pinned him. It was something the old Raven would do, and Hank missed that silly streak.

“Oh, you think you’re so tough, huh?” she said. “Don’t need to take fighting lessons with the girls and the nerds?”

Alex growled, bucking his hips, but Mystique was a lot stronger than she looked, Hank had noticed. Especially now that she was wearing her natural skin full-time.

“Come on, tough guy,” she said. “Let’s see how tough you really are.”

“Get off,” Alex hissed. “Get the fuck off me.”

Hank caught the look of genuine rage on Alex’s face, and something even worse behind it, something dark and terrible.

“What, you can’t throw me?” Mystique’s tone was light; she still thought this was all in fun. Edgy fun, but she’d never been one to back down from Alex’s surliness. She always preferred to meet him insult for insult.

“Mystique, stop,” Hank ordered, because she didn’t see it, what was happening here.

“Is that your master plan, Summers? Have Hank be your bodyguard for the rest of your life?”

Hank smelled ozone, and thought, _oh shit._

Time didn’t exactly slow down, but everything sharpened into an over-saturated focus. He could see Alex’s lips drawing back in a snarl, the sparks of red coming off his skin, the expression of burgeoning confusion on Mystique’s face. Hank didn’t have time to wonder if he’d be able to move fast enough, if he was about to get himself killed. He just moved, taking two large steps and then throwing himself on Mystique, knocking her out of the way. He felt the blast as it burned past him. There were a series of horrific crashes, then a silence that seemed just as deafening.

Hank coughed, plaster and masonry dust catching in his throat, and stared at the gaping hole in the far wall. Then at his shirt sleeve, which was singed and smoking.

Okay, that was a little close. He patted the burning fabric until it stopped smoldering.

There were pounding footsteps, and then Angel and Logan appeared in the doorway. Logan had his claws out, looking (as ever) ready for a fight.

“What happened?” he shouted, running to the window. “Did you see where it came from?”

Hank pulled away from Mystique, struggling into a sitting position. “Where what came from?” he asked, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

“Whatever it was that blew the hole in the wall, genius!” Logan shouted. “Was it a grenade, missile, what? Did it come from ground level? Shit, did they bring in copters?”

This might have made more sense if Hank weren’t in some kind of delayed shock, but he wasn’t honestly sure.

“Nobody’s shooting at us,” Mystique said, sitting up. She added softly, “It was Alex.”

Which reminded Hank, oh right, _Alex_. He was still frozen on the ground, carpet singed all around him, staring at the enormous hole he’d just blasted in the wall.

“Hey,” Hank said, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Alex flinched away from the touch, which actually made Hank feel even worse than he had before. He wouldn’t have thought that was possible.

“Take me downstairs,” Alex said, voice hoarse and strained. “To that bunker thing.”

“Magneto is in there,” Angel said quietly. “He was doing tests with that helmet of Shaw’s.”

“Boot him out,” Logan said. “Raven, you go.”

Mystique nodded, picking herself up gingerly, sending an apologetic glance at Alex. He ignored her, still staring at the hole in the wall, his face pale.

“This happen a lot?” Logan asked, too casual.

Alex swallowed, throat working, but didn’t answer.

“No,” Hank said for him, but of course, he didn’t really know. He met Alex all of three weeks ago; until two weeks ago, he’d thought that Alex hated him. Two weeks was maybe enough time to start falling in love with somebody -- and more than enough to get to third base with them, as it turned out -- but not to actually get to know them.

“I see,” Logan said, like he actually did; Hank briefly wondered if he just unwittingly spoke his brief revelation aloud. He hoped not, especially the part about third base.

“Alex,” Hank said again.

Alex just shook his head once, sharply. Then he got up and left the room, Logan following him.

“Hank, maybe you should--” Angel began, crouching down next to him.

There was a strange noise, and Angel backed off fast. It took Hank a second to realize that it was a snarl, and that it was coming from him.

Hank coughed, shaking off whatever-it-was. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what--”

“S’okay,” Angel said. She held out her hand and hauled him up. “Let’s get out of here, huh?”

* * *

One of Hank’s many problems was that he didn’t know when to leave things alone. This was why he found himself in the kitchen an hour later, making Alex some hot chocolate in a clumsy, transparent pretext to see him. Hank acknowledged that his emotions were getting the better of his logic, and knew that he wouldn’t be in much of a position to help Alex if the other boy accidentally fried him. He also thought that Alex might need somebody, that he might need _Hank_ , and what was a potential death by immolation compared to that?

Hank was starting to worry about himself.

Darwin caught him coming out of the kitchen, steaming mug in hand. “Is that for Alex?” he asked. Angel must have told him what happened.

Hank nodded.

“Hot chocolate?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

Maybe Hank shouldn’t have added so many marshmallows. He’d already called his masculinity into question enough just by... well. By being skinny and nerdy and bisexual, none of which he really had any control over, but there it was. And what the heck was the point of hot chocolate without marshmallows?

Hank shrugged defensively. “I didn’t think coffee would help his nerves, and he doesn’t really strike me as a tea person.”

Darwin smiled. “C’mere,” he said, walking over to a high cabinet. He pulled it open and drew out... oh. Bourbon. Probably expensive bourbon, considering the aged label.

“In case the hot chocolate doesn’t help,” Darwin said, smiling. Hank took it with a tight smile, wondering how this stuff came so easily to some people.

“Thanks,” Hank mumbled.

“Good luck.”

“Yeah, I’ll probably need it,” Hank said glumly.

Darwin barked a laugh. “Probably. He’s a good guy, but kinda rough around the edges, you know? That should smooth him out a bit,” he added, nodding at the bourbon.

(Later, Hank realized that this was the first time he ever had a conversation in which his sexuality was implicit, and not disapproved of. He’d always be grateful to Darwin for that. Just like he’d always be grateful to Raven and Charles for their enthusiasm about his ugly mutation.)

* * *

Hank hesitated outside the door of the basement bunker, then knocked. When there was no answer, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. Peering around the corner to make sure he wasn’t about to have burning rings of plasma thrown in his face, it took him a second to find Alex in the large space. He was sitting on the ground, knees drawn up to his chest. He looked exhausted, and no wonder: the concrete walls were covered in scorch marks, like a dozen bombs had been detonated. The air reeked of ozone and charcoal.

Hank coughed.

“Hey, bozo,” Alex said, not looking up.

Hank gathered up his courage, stepped the rest of the way into the room, and shut the door behind him. He crossed the room, the clacks from his shoes absurdly loud and echoing, and squatted down in front of Alex.

Alex huffed a laugh. He still hadn’t opened his eyes. “Hot chocolate? Seriously?”

He must have smelled it. “I brought bourbon, too.”

Alex finally looked up, smiling faintly. He glanced at the mug and the bottle in Hank’s hands, and took the hot chocolate. Hank set the bourbon down, feeling oddly heartened.

Alex looked him over, not quite meeting his eyes, before staring back down at the melting marshmallows in his mug. “You changed your shirt,” he said.

Hank shrugged. “It was full of dust. It itched.”

“It was burned,” Alex said. “I saw it.”

Hank shrugged again. After a moment, when he realized that Alex couldn’t, for whatever reason, just come out and ask him, he said, “I’m all right, you know.”

Alex glanced up at him, then looked away.

“I’m tougher than I look,” Hank added, which made Alex laugh.

“That’s not much of an accomplishment, just so we’re clear.”

Hank was struck by the urge to do something stupid, like take off his shirt and show Alex his unblemished, unburnt arm. Instead, he unscrewed the cap of the bourbon and, under Alex’s watching gaze, took a tiny sip.

He didn’t make a face. It was only a little bit of a struggle. Alex smiled and held out his hand. Hank passed him the bottle.

“It’s true,” Hank said. “I’m stronger than I should be. Faster, too. I don’t bruise, and my bones are extremely dense.”

“You can take a licking and keep on ticking?” Alex says, his tone sarcastic.

Hank snorted. “Two guys tried to mug me in Baltimore last year.”

“And you kicked their asses?”

Hank rolled his eyes. “They kicked mine. They had chains and those things, like linked-up rings?”

Alex stared at him. “Brass knuckles?”

Hank pulled the bottle back out of his unresisting hand, and took another tiny sip. “I guess.”

“Two guys went at you with chains and brass knuckles, and you--”

“Still made it to the lab the next day. Early, even.”

Alex snatched the bottle back from him and took a long drink. He was flushed, eyes watering when he put the bottle back on the ground. Hank observed all of this, wondering at the reaction. What was this in response to? The fact that Hank got the crap kicked out of him? It wasn’t like it would be the first or last time.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” Alex asked.

Ah, right. The masculine response to violence was to respond in kind. Hank had had to teach himself otherwise. “Because once I start fighting, it’s hard to stop. And neither of them would have been able to go to work the next day if I did.”

They were silent as Alex drank the rest of his hot cocoa. Hank picked at the label on the bottle of bourbon, then remembered that it was probably worth more than everything he had ever owned in his entire life.

“I was in solitary confinement in prison,” Alex said.

Hank looked up. “I know.” When Alex glared at him, he added, “I worked on the Cerebro project. I did the fact-checking on most of the mutants Charles found.”

“Do you know why?” Alex asked, staring down at the ground. “Why they put me in solitary?”

“I can guess,” Hank says. Alex was young, not particularly large, and -- in Hank’s private, never-to-be-shared opinion -- ridiculously good-looking. _Pretty._

“Guess how many fights I was in,” Alex says. Of course he’d call it that: a fight, like it was something fair.

“Just the one?” Hank asked.

“Just the one,” Alex agreed. “That’s all it took to convince them to throw me in the hole.”

Hank wondered how high the bodycount was.

“Technically,” Alex continued, “I’m not supposed to be out on parole for twenty more years. I’m pretty sure Charles had to do some kind of mental voodoo on a judge so they’d let me out.”

Hank was struck by a sudden urge to kiss him. Then he remembered that he was technically allowed to do that, so he did. Alex’s skin still smelled like dust, mixed with an electric ozone tang and sweat.

It always surprised Hank, the way Alex would open himself up to a kiss, how the tightly held tension in his body -- the lines and shape of a person on the lookout for a fight -- relaxed and melted, every part of his body saying _yes_ and _more_ and even _please._

Alex clambered up into his lap, pushing Hank onto his back. Hank thought back to the way Alex exploded when Raven had pinned him, the way he always rolled atop Hank, would squirm out from underneath him. How long had he been in prison before--

“Ow!” he said suddenly, shoving Alex away. “You bit me!”

“Stop thinking,” Alex said, getting up into his space again. “You’re here with me, right now, so _be here.”_

He pushed his hands into Hank’s hair, knocking his glasses off, and pulled on his hair. Not gently. It felt good, a shock that traveled through his nerve endings like a speeding train. Alex’s skin was hot underneath the loose t-shirt he was wearing, feverish against Hank’s palms. It made something in Hank unravel, loosen its grip; it was like his mind and body were synchronizing for once, instead of second-guessing each other.

“Do you trust me?” Hank asked, slipping his fingers under Alex’s waistband, clutching at the smooth skin.

Alex shuddered against him, but didn’t answer. Hank tightened his grip, then flipped their positions in one quick move. Alex tensed up the second he was on his back, fingers clutching painfully at Hank’s shoulders.

Hank put a bit of space between them, didn’t press Alex down, just kissed him softly and said, “Because I trust you. To not hurt me.”

Alex stared up at him, eyes wide, pupils dilated: in fear or arousal, or maybe both, Hank wasn’t sure. Hank scooted down, curled his fingers into the waistband of Alex’s jeans, feeling the wiry hairs that began just beneath the buckle of his belt. He knew that he could tear through the fabric with hardly any effort at all, and it was a terrible thought: that he had the power to take something that wasn’t freely given. It had never occurred to him in this context.

So he waited, one hand on Alex’s knee, the other still curled around his waistband, watching Alex, who was watching him. Just when Hank was about to back off, put a couple feet of space between the two of them, or maybe just make a run for it, Alex took a deep breath and nodded.

Hank couldn’t get his belt off fast enough. He pulled Alex’s jeans down over his hips, revealing pale thighs, dark golden hair, a cock that was flushed and hard. Alex’s scent -- metallic and musky, like the smell of a welding shop-- hit him. Hank forgot all about his previous mission of getting Alex’s pants off, overtaken by his senses and desire, and started nuzzling along at the seam of Alex’s thigh instead.

“Hank,” Alex said, the word barely a breath.

Words were difficult, but Hank forced them out: “Can I--?”

 _“Fuck,”_ Alex said. “Yeah.”

This was only the third time Hank had ever had a cock in his mouth, and his first time sober -- well, sober-ish, because he was apparently drunk on pheromones and two sips of bourbon. He licked up the shaft of Alex’s cock and sucked the crown into his mouth, registering the strangled noise coming from the other boy. Alex’s fingers clenched in his shirt, and Hank moved them to his hair, trying to send as explicit a message as possible: Alex wasn’t a bystander here. This wasn’t happening to him, wasn’t being done to him. Alex had told him to be here, with him, and Hank wanted the same.

“That’s-- shit, that’s good,” Alex said. Hank put his hands around Alex’s hips, running his thumbs along the sharp curve of the bone, trying to move in a rhythm. Hank could feel himself getting harder, and a moan rumbled out of his chest.

Alex was swelling in his mouth, his breathing was getting more and more ragged. “Hank,” Alex said. _“Hank.”_

Alex tugged on his hair, and Hank realized, too late, that it was a warning. He gagged a little as Alex came in his mouth, his come bitter and salty on his tongue, and swallowed by instinct.

“Fuck,” Alex said, then half-laughed.

Hank felt like he was overheating, his skin burning and tingling. He wiped his mouth and said, “What?”

Alex leaned up on his elbows, grinning down at Hank. “Nothing, that was just embarrassingly quick.”

Hank blinked. Was that a compliment? Thinking was hard.

“Never mind,” Alex said, then reached down and yanked on Hank’s shirt, pulling him back up into a kiss. Hank wondered briefly if Alex could taste himself on Hank’s tongue, wondered if he liked it. Going by the contented way he was moaning into Hank’s mouth, yeah, it was a distinct possibility.

“The things I wanna do to you,” Alex muttered.

“Well, pick one and do it,” Hank pleaded. If Alex left him hanging much longer, he was going to start humping his leg or something.

Alex pushed at him, putting a couple inches of space. “Not here. Somewhere more comfortable.”

 _“Alex,”_ Hank said. His tone was dangerously close to growl. “I swear to--”

Alex grinned at him. “God, you’re a _beast._ Am I gonna have to get a collar and leash for you?"

Hank growled again, and actually did rub his hard-on against Alex’s hip. Alex pushed him off again, harder this time, and Hank went, crouching on his heels while Alex pulled up his jeans.

“I am not running all the way back to our room with a -- an erection,” he said.

“There must be somewhere closer. Something better than a cement floor.”

“The lab,” Hank said. “There’s a couch.”

“Take me there.”

* * *

It wasn’t a particularly nice couch. It was obviously a cast-off from some other room in the mansion. It had a mossy green corduroy covering on it, with a collection of stains and burns.

Hank wasn’t in the mood to complain, though. Far from it.

Alex twisted his fingers, and Hank felt his nails tear through the cushion, sinking into stuffing.

“I want to fuck you,” Alex said. He leaned over, pressing his hard cock against Hank’s back. “Maybe later tonight, in that big bed. _Our_ bed.”

“You can--” Hank said, but then Alex twisted his fingers again, and whatever Hank had been about to say was lost. Alex’s fingers were _hot_ inside him, and touching him in some deep spot nobody had reached before. Alex wound his free hand in Hank’s hair and tugged.

“Can you come from this?” Alex asked. “Just from my fingers being in you?”

Hank shook his head. He felt like he was being unraveled, like he was forcibly shedding layers of himself that didn’t matter. He was hard, but he mostly just felt overwhelmed by sensation.

“No,” Hank stammered. “I need--”

Alex lay down next to him, maneuvering Hank until they were both on their sides. The angle changed, became shallower. Hank let out a breathless moan of loss.

“Touch yourself,” Alex said. He squirmed his free arm under Hank’s chest, wrapping around him.

Hank did, wrapping his hand around his cock and tugging on it. “It’s not-- I want--”

Alex pinched his nipple. “What?”

“Fuck me,” Hank said, flushing, because he hadn’t been able to get the image out of his mind. “Just do it.”

Alex stilled behind him. “You serious?”

Hank reached out with one of his feet, into one of the drawers next to the couch. He opened it, pawed through the detritus, and then pulled out the bottle of hand lotion he knew was in there; wearing rubber gloves gave him dry skin. He tossed it into his free hand, then offered it to Alex.

Who was staring at him, eyes wide.

Hank briefly wondered if he’d just ruined any chance of sex. Then Alex kissed him, with a lot of heat and a fair amount of tongue, and Hank figured they were still good to go.

“That was _awesome,_ ” Alex said, uncapping the lotion

Hank didn’t know what to make of that. “Thanks?”

“Do you think you could jerk off with your--”

Hank groaned. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

“Okay, do you think you could jerk _me_ off with--”

Hank elbowed him.

“Ow, asshole. Fine. Jesus.”

Hank wondered if other people had this problem; wanting to make hot chocolate for someone and have conversations about emotions with them one minute, wanting them to fuck you the next, and then wanting to throttle them five minutes after that.

Of course, other people weren’t dating Alex Summers -- if they were, Hank would not be responsible for his actions -- so probably not.

Hank started to get up, thinking he’d go to the bathroom and get himself off -- maybe with his feet, just to spite Alex -- but Alex tugged him back down.

“Cool your jets,” he said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Hank wondered how many different ways there were to interpret a sentence like that, but Alex was biting his neck and rubbing himself against Hank. His cock, slicked up with lotion, slid against the cleft of his ass. Hank found himself moaning and writhing, moving against Alex’s hot skin.

“You like that?” Alex asked. “You want it?”

Hank growled, nodding. Alex curled a hand beneath Hank’s thigh and pushed it up, then pushed in. Hank hissed at the intrusion, a deep pain that still, somehow, felt satisfying, a need fulfilled. He could feel Alex breathing, his chest heaving against Hank’s back, his forehead resting on Hank’s shoulders. A shudder went through the other boy.

“Alex,” Hank said. He squeezed his cock in his hand. _“Alex,”_ he said again, more urgently. Coming quickly during a blow job was one thing, but if this ended prematurely, Hank’s balls were going to explode.

Alex started to move, a slow, slick slide of skin, still painful, but nothing Hank couldn’t handle, nothing he didn’t want to handle. It was a strange transparent pain that turned all his senses crystalline sharp. It made every breath taste sweet, and every touch like a shock.

“Is that-- does it hurt?” Alex said, voice rough. “Tell me if it hurts, and I’ll stop.”

“It doesn’t,” Hank said, even though it did. “You’re not going to hurt me, it feels good.”

“ _You_ feel good,” Alex said, because of course, he would still be argumentative during sex. “Jesus, you feel _so fucking good.”_

Anything else Alex said was lost; for a long time, all Hank could hear was the pounding rush of blood in his ears, the rhythmic panting that was cycling through his chest, in time with Alex’s thrusts. He could feel pressure building up at the base of his spine, a tremor starting in his thighs.

Alex took Hank’s hand and wrapped it around his cock again. Hank whined, high in throat.

“Come on,” Alex said, his breath warm and damp against Hank’s ear. “Wanna feel it when you come.”

Alex thrust harder, and that was it, that was all it took. Hank came in a rush of sensation that completely overtook him, so much so that he didn’t even feel Alex come inside him. He floated on a blissful high, feeling sweaty and wrung out and absolutely amazing. Then Alex pulled out, and he felt kind of gross and sticky, and sore in weird places, but still pretty good. He wriggled against Alex until the other man got the hint, throwing an arm around Hank and pressing his face into his neck.

“Was that...” Alex started to say, then trailed off.

Hank turned his head, not without some difficulty. “What?”

“Was that your first time?”

“Doing that?” Hank said. “Not exactly. But the first time was kind of....”

Alex looked at him. “What?”

“Unmemorable. I didn’t enjoy it much.”

“But you enjoyed that?”

Hank raised an eyebrow. “Do you really need to ask?” When Alex didn’t answer, Hank rolled his eyes. “Yes. In case the whole moaning and writhing and orgasming didn’t clue you in.”

Alex kissed him. “Smart ass.”

Hank tried to think of a snappy comeback, something about how yeah, his ass was smarting, then gave it up for kissing Alex some more.

“Wait,” he said, breaking the kiss. “Was that your first time?”

Alex blushing was a sight that Hank would never get tired of.

* * *

The next morning, there was a note on the kitchen counter.

>   
> _Dear fellow inhabitants-_   
> _It’s come to my notice that the basement bunker has an odd dampening effect on my telepathic powers, quite probably due to the thick concrete walls. Rest assured, I have the utmost respect for others’ privacy, and never ‘eavesdrop’ on thoughts inasmuch as I’m able. If, however, there is something on your mind, or if you would like to have a conversation without it possibly being broadcast, for your own peace of mind -- and to avoid any possible discomfort -- you could consider this._
> 
>  _Dr. Charles F. Xavier_

Below it, a reply in pencil:

>   
> _Professor:_   
> _Thank you for letting us know. I’ll keep that in mind._
> 
>  _Hank McCoy_

There was another addition below that, written in marker.

>   
> _Chuck,  
>  I’d consider putting a cot in there, then. ‘Conversations’ aren’t much fun on a cold concrete floor.  
> _   
> _(the only) Logan_
> 
>  _PS: WHY IS EVERYONE SIGNING THEIR LAST NAME? HAVE WE NOT ALL BEEN LIVING IN THE SAME HOUSE FOR TWO WEEKS?_

Next to the amended note, there was a napkin with a quick scrawl and an arrow, pointing at Logan’s reply.

  


>   
> _Agreed. It’d probably just be easiest to move the couch from the lab. It’s plenty comfortable.  
> _   
> _Alex R. Summers, esquire_   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was supposed to be a sweet story about Hank and Alex talking about their pasts and growing as a couple, and then I drank a bunch of wine while writing it, and it devolved into porn.
> 
> Apologies for the ridiculous title, but I've spent the last twenty minutes trying to fight AO3's automatic formatting codes into submission, and didn't have much energy left to come up with something better.
> 
> And I bet Charles is the most passive-aggressive note-leaver ever.


	5. Immovable Objects

“I don’t want to go,” Charles said, hiding under his pillow. “Tell them I’ve died.”

“Like they’d believe me,” Raven huffed. She tugged on the blankets that were still covering him. “You were perfectly fine the last time you went.”

“I could make them believe you.” Probably, anyway. He’d never tried a psychic command from a hundred miles away, but for this, he’d be willing try.

“Like I’d lie to them in the first place, then,” she replied, then waited, almost daring Charles to say something along the lines of _I could make you lie to them._

Instead, he sighed and threw off the bedcovers. “Whoever came up with the idea of physical therapy should be shot in the gut, have several inches of their intestines removed, and then be forced to do humiliating exercises with medical balls. Bastards.”

“Buck up, old man,” he heard, and looked up sharply. His own face grinned gaily back at him. It was highly disconcerting. “It’s good for you. Builds character.”

“My nose is not that big,” he said, glaring at her.

Blue eyes flashed gold, and then Raven shifted back into her blue form. Her real form, Charles reminded himself. Her natural form.

“Get up, you big baby,” she said. “We’re going to be late.”

At least she was talking to him again, Charles mused. Nothing like getting shot in a suitably melodramatic way to garner some sympathy.

* * *

Considering that they were harboring a wanted fugitive (Erik), a technically-escaped convict (Alex), a terrifying man who liked to use his claws to slice bread for toast (Logan), bringing a physical therapist to the mansion would have been monumentally stupid. Thus, Charles now had to be driven twice-weekly out to bloody Putnam Hospital for the humiliating exercises.

Raven volunteered to drive him, a three hour round-trip. Charles, naturally, didn’t get any say. He hated being an invalid.

He managed to get through twenty minutes of tense silence in the car before he finally caved. “Raven,” he said.

Raven’s eyes narrowed. “Mystique,” she reminded him.

Charles suppressed a sigh. “Apologies,” he said. “Mystique, then.”

“Yes, Charles?”

“What is it you want to talk about?” He saw her open her mouth, and said quickly, “I’m not _trying_ to read your mind, but even if I weren’t a bloody telepath, it’d be obvious that there’s something you want to say, so just spit it out. Otherwise it’s like dangling a string in front of a cat and believing it won’t bat at it.”

Raven snorted. “You know, you were a lot funnier while you were still on morphine.”

“Yes, well. I was also apparently acting in highly inappropriate ways. Please, Ra-- Mystique. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Raven drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, and was silent for so long that Charles really did consider just yanking the thoughts rudely out of her mind. When she spoke, however, it took him completely off-guard.

“Charles, what are we doing?”

He looked over at her. She was wearing her familiar blonde form, though she’d aged it a few years, so nobody would think Charles was being chauffered by a sixteen year old. He remembered what she said, good lord, only a few weeks ago: _you’re not that much older than me, it’s just this groovy mutation I have._

“You’ll have to be more specific. I was under the impression that you were driving me to be healthfully tortured in Putnam.”

She rolled her eyes. “I mean all of us. At the mansion. What are we doing? We’ve been lying low for the last two and a half weeks, and none of us want to leave, but--”

Charles’ flare of panic at the mention of anybody leaving was so strong, it leaked out. Raven grabbed his hand, squeezing it.

“Sorry,” he said, swallowing.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I said we _weren’t_ going to leave, dummy. “

“Morphine withdrawal. It’s been hell on my control.” He hadn’t been so chafed by others’ thoughts since he was a teenager. It was embarrassing.

“Is that why you wrote the--”

“Yes, it’s why I wrote the bloody note. I’d really rather not be forced into voyeurism, if it’s all the same to you.”

Raven laughed, but quickly sobered. “Okay, but back to my point. We can’t all just sit on our hands forever. We’re bored. I mean, have you seen that monstrosity that Hank started building in the carriage house?”

“Yes, I’ve heard him working on it.” Hank’s thoughts, when he was in the middle of a project, had a way of carrying, a murmuring whirl of mental activity. “He’s making a new Cerebro.”

“Well, what are the rest of us supposed to do? We can’t build science projects out of old cars and scrap metal.”

Charles shifted in his seat, thinking. “Hell if I know,” he answered. “Everything happened so fast. Two months ago, we didn’t know other mutants existed. But they’re _everywhere,_ it’s amazing. All these brilliant...” Charles gestured, unable to put it into words, what he’d seen in Cerebro. How mutants shone out like diamonds, radiant and unexpected.

“But they’re all alone,” Raven said. “Just like we were, thinking they’re the only ones who’re different.”

Charles stared out the window, at the farmland rushing past them. He opened his mouth, surprising himself when he said, “I want to start a school.”

Raven looked at him, eyebrows raised. “A school.”

“A safe place,” he said. “For all mutants, but especially children. We both know well enough how vulnerable they can be.”

He expected Raven, who had absolutely hated being in school, and had mortified him by dropping out years ago, to scoff. Instead, she looked thoughtful. “We’ll have to talk to the others about this.”

Charles thought: _I’ll have to talk to Erik._ Easier thought than done. Since their conversation via telepathic projection in the library last week, they’d scarcely exchanged more than a dozen words.

“Maybe we should start with something easy,” Charles said. “Logan’s already offered to teach everyone some hand-to-hand combat. It would be the same as we were doing before Cuba.”

“Erik could help with that. He’s showed me a few moves already.”

“Maybe they could both do it,” he said.

“You know that they can barely keep from killing each other as it is.”

“Yes, I’d noticed that.” Charles sighed, then smiled. “It would probably do them both good to pound the stuffing out of each other, actually.”

Raven smirked at him. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”

Charles shrugged. “I might be.”

* * *

“No powers,” Charles said. He was leaning heavily on a cane, staring at the two men. Erik stared straight ahead at Logan, who was grinning.

“I can’t exactly shut mine off, you know,” Logan said. He bounced a little on the balls of his feet.

Erik didn’t move. “None of us can.”

In his peripheral vision, Erik saw Charles shut his eyes in frustration. “I’ll remind you both that this is supposed to be instructive, and that you have an audience.”

Erik glanced back towards the others, who were sitting on the grass or on a few benches. They were watching the exchange with interest. Alex, Darwin, and Sean appeared to be placing bets.

“The second I feel your claws come out, Logan--”

Logan’s grin dropped off his face.

“--Or any kind of metal being manipulated, Erik, you’ll both spend the next few evenings believing yourselves to be...” Charles waved a hand. “Toads. No, _kittens._ ”

Erik looked over at him. “You’re not serious.”

Charles smiled at him; the smile was thin and wan. “Fat, lazy kittens, lolling about in the sun and chasing after ribbons.”

“You wouldn’t,” Logan said. “I’m pretty sure you have rules against that.”

“Don’t try the patience of a telepath being weaned off narcotics,” Charles said, limping heavily away to sit on a bench next to Raven. Erik watched him go before snapping his attention back to Logan, who was bouncing on the balls of his feet again.

“Looks like I’ve got the advantage, Lensherr.”

Erik thought back to the moment he’d tried, and failed, to strike from his memory: Logan reaching Charles just a hair too late, the bullet catching both of them, the blood arcing in the bright sunlight He smiled.

“Because you can heal?” he asked. “That just means I can hit you more. And harder.”

“Oh, this is going to be _fun_ , I can already tell,” Logan said.

* * *

“So,” Sean said, as they watched the two men grapple. “We’re supposed to learn something from watching those two kick the crap out of each other?”

“There are lessons to be learned in everything,” Charles said.

They all watched in silence for a moment, wincing collectively when Logan or Erik landed a particularly good punch.

“Nope, still not getting it,” Sean said. There was a chorus of _me neithers._

Erik tripped Logan, shoving him on the ground, and then pushed his face into the dirt. Logan caught him with an elbow to the jaw, then bodily threw him off. They both rolled in the muddy grass.

Charles smiled humorlessly. “What do you think happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?”

Logan landed two sharp jabs to Erik’s torso, followed by an uppercut. Erik fell backwards, but kicked out, hitting Logan solidly in the chest.

“It’s a philosophical paradox,” Hank said. “Physically impossible, but--”

“I’m employing it as a metaphor, Hank,” he said gently. “Evolution is an unstoppable force. Fear, anger, and animosity transform men into immovable objects.”

“Like those guys at the CIA?” Alex asked. “The ones who decided to bomb us into oblivion?”

“Exactly like that. I want you all to learn to fight, but you need to remember that this is what it can lead to.”

“What’s that?” Sean asked.

“What’s wrong, Lensherr?” Logan called. “Am I little tougher to beat up than your tweed-wearing professor?”

Erik spat a curse in German, and launched himself at the other man.

“Crazy motherfucking Kraut--”

“Geh zur Hölle, du arschgeige--”

Erik glared and clenched his fists. The metal chain around Logan’s neck tightened, while at the same time, his sharp claws snapped out of his knuckles.

Charles held up his hand. Both men froze.

“Mutually assured destruction,” he answered. “Anger can be a weapon, but all weapons cut both ways. Look at what nearly happened at Cuba.”

“Magneto almost killed you?” Sean said.

“More like, world war three nearly started,” Darwin said, nudging him.

“I was referring to both, actually,” Charles said. “War, and any time a situation degrades into violence, means one of two things has happened: either there was a failure of diplomacy, or someone wanted a war from the start. In Cuba, it was both.”

Charles made sure that his voice carried his next words straight into Erik and Logan’s thick skulls. “The world needs more diplomats. It does not need more Sebastian Shaws.”

They all sat and pondered that for a moment, looking at the two men who were still frozen in the act of trying to kill each other.

“So are you going to turn them into kittens?” Raven asked.

“I’m considering it,” Charles said.

“Man, I would sleep with one eye open if you do,” Darwin said, shaking his head.

“I’m a telepath,” Charles explained with a shrug. “I always have one eye open.”

* * *

Charles was lying on the rug in his room, doing his PT exercises, when Erik stormed in and flung something at him.

Charles caught it --he’d seen it coming, of course, had felt Erik’s anger from the moment he’d woken up, ten minutes ago -- and examined it. It was a tiny pink collar with a bell on it.

That had been Raven, no doubt. She’d been extremely disappointed when Charles had decided to send both men into a light sleep and move them to their rooms.

“I’m not here to be made into a joke,” Erik spat.

“I think it was meant as a sign of affection, actually.”

“Then it was misplaced.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Charles sighed, and let the collar fall from his hand onto the floor. The bell gave a muffled _ding_ when it hit the carpet.

“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” Erik sneered. “I do not want your pity, either.”

His patience had already been frayed by the persistent itch on his maimed abdomen, his cravings for the narcotics he’d thrown out, and the stupid game of avoidance the two of them had been playing for days. At Erik’s contemptuous words, it snapped.

Charles scooped the collar back up and hurled it at Erik’s face. He missed, but only because Erik waved it aside at the last second. “Then what do you want?” he snapped. “Why are you still here?”

Erik’s face had lost any sign of irritation at Charles’ tone. He looked well and truly stunned. “I--”

“You’ve been sulking alone in my library for the last two weeks, hardly talking to anyone, or mooning over that dead bastard’s helmet. Are you planning a mutant uprising? Another war to wage against humans, so mutantkind can rise from the ashes of a dead world?”

“Charles,” Erik started to say. Charles grabbed the closest thing to hand -- the medical ball he’d been lifting -- and flung it at him. It hit Erik in the shoulder, knocking him back a step.

“You don’t want affection, you don’t want my pity, so _what the hell do you want?_ ”

The look on Erik’s face: shock mixed with deep, soul-bruised weariness. “I wish I could tell you,” he said, and turned away.

“So help me, Erik, if you walk away, I really will make you think you’re a kitten.”

Erik stopped, caught inside the doorway. After a moment, he said, “Raven would be pleased, no doubt.”

Charles snorted, amused despite himself.

Erik turned back, leaning against the wall, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his grass-stained sweatshirt. He considered Charles for a long moment. “So we’re going to talk about it?”

Charles swallowed. “It would appear so.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. Then: “Tell me you have alcohol in here.”

Charles huffed. “What kind of Xavier would I be if I didn’t? Top cabinet, next to that bookshelf.”

Charles struggled into a sitting position while Erik fixed the drinks, wincing as he pulled against the staples in his skin. He briefly thought about trying to haul himself into a standing position, so he could make his way over to the overstuffed chairs by the window, but between the exercises and his fit of rage, he was exhausted. They could sit and drink on the bloody rug.

“You’re angry with me,” Erik said from the bar, breaking the silence.

“You _shot_ me, you arsehole, in the process of attempting to murder hundreds of people. And that was after you had already made me a party to murder. I’m bloody well infuriated with you.”

Erik handed him a whiskey and soda. Erik was rubbish at mixing drinks, he always had been, and he’d used too light a hand with the whiskey. Charles sipped at it, waiting for Erik to try and explain the incident away: blame Moira, blame Shaw, blame the humans, whatever.

Charles nearly choked when Erik said, clearly and without any fanfare, “I’m sorry.”

“I honestly never expected you to say that,” he said, when the coughing fit passed.

“Regret isn’t something I’m familiar with. Not until recently.”

Charles thought: _This is the man I dove into the ocean to save._ He took a large gulp of his whiskey and soda. “What do you want, Erik? Truly.”

“Truly, my friend? I don’t have the words to say.”

“Have you forgotten that you’re talking to a telepath?” Charles wiggled his fingers next to his temple. “Words aren’t exactly necessary.”

Erik looked wary. “I’m not sure I should trust someone who’s threatened to turn my mind into a kitten’s twice today.”

Charles smiled faintly. “I promise, you’ll come out of it just the same: stubborn, infuriating, and still unable to mix a decent drink.”

Erik took a swallow of his drink, then set the glass down on the carpet. He nodded, and closed his eyes.

* * *

What Erik wanted wasn’t articulated, not even to himself, and it came to Charles in a flickering zoetrope of images and emotions. Sharing a drink with Charles over a chess game. Grinning at Angel as she hovered in the air above them. Raven smiling at him, her eyes gold. The way he’d felt after moving the distant satellite dish. A certain kind of lightness, a looseness in his muscles, a feeling of gravity and focus, of mutual trust, of belonging.

And on the flip side of that, a great feeling of loss, purposelessness, guilt; Charles saw himself as he lay bleeding on a Cuban shore, Erik waking up in the mansion and feeling bereft and empty. He saw lonely nights spent locked away with dead writers, a self-imposed exile. He saw Erik staring at the helmet that Shaw had worn, that Erik had briefly donned. He saw the precipice Erik was standing on, had always trod but now teetered on its edge.

Charles made a decision.

* * *

“That’s peace, Erik,” Charles said, withdrawing back into himself. He wiped away a tear; damn it, being in Erik’s mind always choked him up. “That feeling you miss? It’s being at peace.”

Erik stared, stunned. “Peace isn’t an option for anyone. We’re on the brink of war.”

“So you keep telling me,” Charles said. He rubbed at his legs, which were starting to fall asleep. Bloody nerve damage. “Get me another drink.”

“You can have mine,” Erik said, pushing it over towards him.

Charles gulped it down. “Now help me up. I’m tired of sitting on the bloody floor.”

Erik got an arm around his torso and gently pulled him up, then maneuvered him over to the chair by the window. Charles fell into it with a grateful sigh. When Erik turned to leave, Charles caught his hand.

“I forgive you,” he said. He snapped his jaw shut before he could say anything else, like I would probably forgive you anything, as long as you don’t leave.

Erik blinked, then looked down at their joined hands. Slowly, he raised Charles’ hand to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you,” he said, breathing the words into his skin.

Charles felt a completely inappropriate jolt of lust flicker through him, and suppressed it ruthlessly, hoping Erik hadn’t felt its echo. He swallowed, and gently extricated his hand.

“You’re right,” he said. “A war is coming. But how we fight will matter just as much as winning it.”

Erik knelt down in front him, putting them at eye-level. “You’re an idealist. And you’ve never been in a war.”

“You’re trigger-happy, and you’ve been in too many.”

Erik grinned madly at him. “We’ll make a magnificent army, my friend.”

Charles didn’t want an army. In the face of Erik’s smile, though, he couldn’t find it in him to argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler: they're totally gonna bone. Eventually. Probably.


	6. This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things

Standing on the steps to the New York Public Library, floating on the undulating swells of thoughts of the humans around him, Charles listened to everyone argue about where to go, what to do, and how to get there.

He was starting to regret this whole outing, necessary as it was.

“Right, we’re splitting up,” Charles said, leaning forward on his cane. “Angel and Darwin, you’re with me. Hank and Mystique, you’re with Erik, and Alex and Sean are with Logan.”

There was a moment of pensive silence, and then everyone immediately started to argue.

“ _Enough,_ ” Charles said, lending his voice enough psychic sharpness for it to carry. “That’s a final decision. Stay in your groups, _do not go off by yourselves_ , and we’ll meet back here at six. Understood?”

Another cacophony of argument.

“Wonderful,” Charles said, cutting through it. “I’ll be checking in.”

He turned and walked to the corner, holding his hand up for a cab. The rest of the group stood together awkwardly for a moment, then broke apart. Angel and Darwin made their way to where Charles was standing. Logan stomped off towards Broadway, Alex and Sean trailing behind him, while Erik, with one lingering look at Charles, led Raven and Hank towards Central Park.

Charles used his powers to catch the attention of a cabbie, who crossed through two lanes of traffic amid a chorus of honks and screeched to a halt in front of them. Darwin stepped forward, opening the door for Charles and Angel, getting in after them.

“Sixth and Houston,” Charles said. The cabbie nodded and pulled back into traffic.

“The Village?” Darwin said. “You got a mind to take us to some coffee houses?”

“If you like. There's someone I need to see there, however. You don't have to come with me, of course."

"Yeah, right," Darwin said, and it was a little dismaying to realize that his own wards thought him incapable of taking care of himself. 

"I'll be fine, really," Charles protested.

"You were the one telling us not to go off by ourselves," Angel reminded him.

 _Hoist by my own petard_ , Charles thought ruefully. At least Angel and Darwin were discrete. 

"Who are we meeting, anyway?" Darwin asked.

"A friend," Charles said, and hoped that it was true.

 

* * *

“Can we go to the aquarium?” Sean asked.

“No,” Logan said.

“Natural history museum?” Alex suggested.

“No.”

“Zoo?”

“No.

“The beach?”

“No.”

“Then where the hell are you taking us, man?” Sean asked.

Logan paused, sniffed, then turned towards an otherwise unremarkable door. He knocked on the door with three measured raps.

The door opened a crack. “Who’s that?”

“It’s Logan.”

The door swung outward. A tall man, wide-shouldered and heavily muscled, stood in the doorway. He nodded at Alex and Sean.

“Who are the kids?”

“They’re with me.”

“Recruits?”

“Of a sort. You gonna let us in?”

The man looked down at Alex and Sean. “They of age?”

Logan grinned. “Close enough for government work.”

The man rolled his eyes, then stood aside. Logan shouldered past him, and Alex and Sean followed. The man gave them amused glances as they scurried past.

“Logan, man, who is that guy?” Sean whispered.

“That’s Forge. This is his bar.”

Alex and Sean shared a look. “Best field trip ever,” Sean said solemnly. Alex nodded, and they followed Logan up the stairs.

* * *

“So, what should we do?” Mystique asked. She was brunette today, her body narrow and boyish. She had been doing this lately; trying out different women when she went out, not settling on just one. Hank hadn’t seen her familiar form, with its blond hair and generous curves, in a while.

“I don’t know,” Hank said. “I don’t really know New York.”

Mystique walked towards the lake, and Hank and Erik followed. A few ducks started to paddle as they approached. “Do you want to see a Broadway show?”

Erik said, “I’m not one for theater.”

“We could take the ferry out to see the Statue of Liberty.”

“I get seasick,” Hank said.

“A museum?” Erik suggested.

“Ugh, no,” Mystique said. “I got dragged on museum tours almost every year of my life.”

The ducks swam towards them, quacking and waggling their tails, hopeful for food.

“I’ve got it!” Mystique said. A few ducks flapped their wings at her shout. “Let’s go to Coney Island. They have lots of metal structures that you can stare at, Erik. And Hank, you can try to win Alex a stuffed bear or something.”

“Wait, what?” Hank said.

“That sounds as good as any other idea,” Erik sighed. “Do you know how to get there?”

* * *

Charles led them to a squat brownstone apartment on a quiet side street, and rang the buzzer for the top floor apartment.

“Yo,” a voice answered after a moment.

Charles shut his eyes, touching a finger to his temple. “Tell Moira that Charles is here. Then find a pressing reason to leave the apartment for a few hours.”

“Cool, man,” the voice replied.

“Moira?” Angel asked. "She's your 'friend?'"

“I certainly hope so,” Charles said, voice sharp.

A minute later, a young woman with long hair and a black turtleneck came out. She paused, lighting a cigarette with a match a few feet from them, then continued down the street without noticing them. Charles, hand at his temple, kept her attention firmly away from them.

“Who was that?” Angel asked.

“Moira’s roommate. Don’t worry, she didn’t see us, won’t remember we were here.”

A few minutes later, Moira herself came down, tugging on a light coat. “I wish I could say this was a surprise.”

“Moira. You look well,” Charles said, trying for charm.

“You look better than the last time I saw you. Come on,” she said. “Let’s go to the park.”

“Not gonna invite us in?” Angel asked sharply.

Moira opened her mouth, but Charles spoke first. “Her apartment is bugged. My powers don’t extend to electronics, unfortunately.”

Moira blinked. “I’d forgotten how weird it is, with you guys.”

Charles could feel another current of anger from Angel. “She means me, of course. Sorry, Moira, I’ve been a bit...” He fluttered his hand next to his temple. “Just weaned myself off the painkillers, it’s been hell on my control.”

“Right,” Moira said. “Well. Shall we?”

* * *

“Man,” Sean said, gazing around at the quiet bar, the silent men reading newspapers or eating pretzels. “Who thought a mutant bar would be so boring?”

“Shut up and drink your beer,” Logan said, lighting a cigar.

“Can’t we play darts or something?”

“Like I would trust either of you with something sharp.”

* * *

“Wow,” Mystique said. “This isn’t quite how I remember it.”

Coney Island was a bit of a disappointment. Dirty, swept with litter, the boardwalk mostly empty. Groups of young men stood around, smoking cigarettes, gazing at the three of them with interest.

“Come on, some of the rides are still up. Let’s go.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Erik said.

“Maybe we should just go get dinner and head back,” Hank added.

“We came all the way out here,” Mystique said. “I am not going to get scared away from hot dogs and the Tilt-a-Whirl by a bunch of assholes.”

“Hey, pretty lady!” one of said assholes called. “Ditch those faggots, we can show you a better time.”

“Fuck off!” Mystique called back, flipping them the bird.

Erik leaned in closer to Mystique. “I can feel at least two dozen weapons around us, including five guns.”

“Good,” she said, grinning up at him. “It’s not like they’ll surprise us then.”

Hank bit his lip. “Mystique--”

“Shut up, Hank, we’re getting hot dogs.”

* * *

It was a warm, sunny day, and the park was suitably crowded. Charles, with a few pointed subconscious suggestions, cleared a bench for the four of them near the fountain, but Angel and Darwin begged off.

“We’re gonna take a walk,” Darwin said. He tapped his head. “Call us if you need us?”

“Of course,” Charles said. He relaxed a little as they walked off. Angel wasn’t trying to hide her hostility towards Moira, whom she associated with memories of being ridiculed and patronized at the CIA facility. Moira had picked up on it; the emotional feedback between the two of them was grating.

“How are you doing, Moira?” Charles asked, after a moment of awkward quiet. “I’m sure it hasn’t been an easy few weeks for you.”

“I’ve landed on my feet okay. The debriefing was...”

Charles couldn’t help seeing the memories: a claustrophobic room, the whine of fluorescent lights above her, hours of questions and thinly-veiled threats. Charles rubbed his temple, feeling guilty. “Rough, I imagine,” he said.

“I got through it. They kicked me back to the secretarial pool, probably just so they could keep me under their thumb. I lasted two weeks before I quit. ”

Charles nodded. “And now you’re here.”

“Figured I’d go back into academia. The New School’s got good social research programs, though there are a few people in the administration that are paranoid I’m a CIA plant.” She laughed, hollowly. “That’s almost ironic.”

“What did you tell them?” Charles asked. “When they interrogated you?”

Moira raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re telling me you didn’t already look?”

Charles sighed, sitting back on the bench. “I’m in a position of authority now, thus trying to make an effort to be less of a prat. Rifling through someone’s memories without their permission would be a bit of a setback.”

Moira smirked at him. “I can hardly believe you’re the same man I met drinking absurd amounts of beer in Oxford.”

Charles huffed a little. “I had to grow up sometime. Getting the sloppy seconds of a gunshot seemed like a good impetus.”

Moira smiled at him, and it seemed more genuine. “I told them that you had erased my memory. That I couldn’t remember anything after meeting you in Oxford, nothing relevant, at least.”

“Clever,” Charles said, though it was troubling that they had believed it. Even more troubling: he was entirely capable of it.

“They think I’m an idiot, and that you’re all evil mutants. I decided it’d be better not to correct them, this once.” Moira leaned forward, looking at Charles. “You have to be careful, Charles. What happened on the beach, it terrified them. Mutants aren’t under the radar anymore, you probably shouldn’t have even come here.”

Charles waved his hand. “They bugged your apartment, but nobody is watching you. Not anymore, anyway.” He’d sent the two men in the apartment across the street into a light doze before they’d arrived.

“I’m serious, Charles. I know how these people work. You’re a threat, now. After what Erik did...” She faltered, tugging at neck of her blouse. There were faint marks on her throat, thin as a necklace chain.

Charles bit his lip. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Moira sighed, putting her hand back in her lap. “Thank you.” _But it’s not worth much at all._

She pulled open her purse, taking out a number of files and handing them over to Charles. “I managed to snag these before I left. The leftover readings from Cerebro. As far as I know, they’re the only copies.”

“Brilliant, thank you.”

“And there’s this.” She tapped the topmost file. “Copy of a profile on a current detainee.”

Charles skimmed her thoughts and blanched. “Oh, bugger.”

He’d forgotten all about Miss Emma Frost.

* * *

“Alex. Alex. Alex.”

“Shut up,” Alex said. He wavered at the pool table, momentarily fumbling the cue. “Concentrating.”

He lined up his shot, blinking.

“Alex. Alex. Aaaaaaaaaalex.”

“I’m gonna break this cue on your face if you don’t-- where are you?” he asked, noticing that Sean was no longer in his field of vision.

“I am on the floor,” Sean said. “It’s kind of sticky.”

Alex crouched down, holding onto the pool table for balance. Sean was indeed on the floor. “Why?”

“A random confluence of various sequential events.”

“...What?”

“I don’t know, man, I just ended up here. Alex. Ahhhh-leeeeeeex. Your name is really strange, did you notice?”

At the bar, Forge grinned at Logan. “This is the most entertaining shit I’ve seen all week.”

Logan toasted him with his beer. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Hank said, yanking Mystique back. The length of chain whipped through empty air.

“Shut up, Hank,” Mystique said, and threw herself on the back of the man with the bike chain. Hank ducked as another guy threw a blind punch, letting it glance off his shoulder.

“Are you really just going to stand there?” Hank shouted at Erik, who was leaning against a boarded over storefront on the boardwalk, eating a hot dog. He’d kept himself out of the melee, literally waving away any gangster that approached. The four men still remaining had decided to concentrate on beating the stuffing out of Hank and Mystique.

“This is supposed to be an educational field trip,” Erik answered. “Who am I to deny you two the opportunity to learn?”

Hank was tackled to the ground before he could respond.

* * *

_Darwin, Angel, I’m ready to leave._

Darwin blinked, glanced around, then looked over at Angel. “Did you...?”

“Yeah.” She shook her head, as if to clear it. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

“At least he stopped with the astral projection.”

They walked back over to the bench where Charles and Moira were still sitting. Moira was paging through a paperback, and didn’t look up at their approach.

“Ready to go?” Charles said. “Excellent.”

“Cool,” Darwin said. He looked down at Moira, who was still reading. “It was nice seeing you again, Moira.”

Moira glanced up at him. “Sorry, have we met before?”

Darwin looked at Charles. He looked tired and pale, and a little sad.

“We’ll talk in the cab,” he said, standing up. “Come on.”

* * *

_Erik, we need to head back to the mansion. Where are you?_

Erik winced at the voice. “Coney Island. Is everything--”

_It’s fine, no cause for worry. Apologize to Raven for me, I know she loves it out there._

Erik started to reply, but the intangible presence in his mind was gone. He sighed, then made a gesture. The four men that had been fighting Hank and Mystique suddenly found themselves pinned to the ground by their belts, watches, and jewelry.

“The fuck⁈” one of them shouted, in a panic. "Jesus, you're all a bunch of freaks--"

“Yes, yes,” Erik said, approaching him. “We're some of those terribly dangerous mutants, the ones who hate humankind, and are genetically inclined to violence against them." He grinned down at the terrified man. "Would you like to see a demonstration?”

The man shook his head, satisfyingly terrified.

"Keep quiet in the presence of your superiors, then," Erik said.

“What gives?” Mystique asked, stepping over her opponent. She was breathing hard, and flipped her hair out of her face. “We were doing fine.”

Hank followed her, panting as he wiped blood from his face. He had a gift for hand-to-hand combat, Erik had noticed, though he tended to hold himself back. A waste of effort.

“We’re leaving. Charles wants to head back to the mansion.”

“God damn it,” Mystique said. “I never got my hot dog.”

* * *

_Logan, we’re-- good GOD, are you drinking? Where are Alex and Sean? Oh, bloody hell--_

“Whoops,” Logan said. “It’s fine, Chuck. I’m supervising them.”

There was a staticky burst of rage in his head. _Just get back here. We're going back to the mansion._

“Dad’s angry, I guess,” Forge chuckled.

“Frigging telepaths.” Logan swallowed the rest of his beer. “You got any coffee, Forge?”

“I got something better,” he said, grinning, pulling some bottles out from behind the bar. He mixed up two more drinks while Logan peeled Sean and Alex off the floor, carrying them back to the bar.

“Here you go,” Forge said, sliding two glasses over to him. “Secret recipe. Instant painful sobriety.”

Logan sniffed at one of the glasses, suspiciously eyeing the black tar swirling around the bottom. It smelled vaguely caffeinated, amongst other things, and that was good enough for him.

“You still got that neutralizer thing? This one can shatter glass, that one tends to explode.”

“Lemme turn it on,” Forge said. He flipped a switch behind the bar, and there was an eye-watering whine. Logan shuddered, then pressed the cups into the boys’ hands.

“Bottoms up, bub.”

* * *

“She wanted me to do it,” Charles said, once they were heading back uptown. “It was the only way I could keep us all safe.”

“I ain’t gonna argue with you,” Angel said, “if that’s what you’re waiting for. The less that other people know about us, the better.”

“Darwin?” Charles prompted, feeling the other man's conflicted emotions. “What do you think?”

Darwin sighed. “I guess it’s smart. Still, Moira’s good people. It’ll be one less person pulling for mutants.”

“I didn’t take everything away. Just enough to keep anyone from finding us, in case someone starts digging.”

“Digging?” Darwin said.

“Shaw’s telepath is a captive of the CIA. So yes, I mean ‘digging’ rather literally.”

* * *

Alex and Sean were both pale and drawn, shivering like drug addicts coming off a bad high. Hank’s clothing was torn, and bruises were blossoming on his jaw. Raven’s expression was calculatedly innocent, which usually meant she was guilty of something or other. Logan and Erik were both smirking.

“You are all grounded,” Charles announced.

Instantly, everyone started to argue.


End file.
